


aquæductus

by jonphaedrus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Age Difference, Blood and Injury, Daddy Kink, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Intersex Character, M/M, Nipple Play, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Piss Enema, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Sounding, Trans Male Character, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 09:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19809814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: Alphinaud chases the taste in his mouth, licking behind his teeth, across the flat of his tongue to the ridges of his palate, drags teeth over his chapped lips.His fingers have hardly begun to dry.





	aquæductus

**Author's Note:**

> @patrexes beta'd this and added a sentence that was so cursed the entire groupchat agreed it couldnt go in here but i do need everyone to know this fic very nearly had the words "his daddy's piss" in it
> 
> the name of this file is "man drinking piss out of cup with mouth open dot gif"

In the way of youth, Alphinaud is needier than he could ever bring himself to ask for, a constant keening pulse of want that not even his own hand can sate, let alone being fucked but once a night. So he is hardly like to say no when offered nearly any press of a hand between his thighs, even sitting as they are in a fairly busy tavern, late enough at night that none pay more than the slightest attention to their neighbors. 

When he slides his hand between his boy’s thighs, pushing free the buttons of his leggings, Alphinaud makes a quiet noise, not looking up from the letters he is reading. He turns, just slightly, and takes the underside of his stool in one hand, scoots it closer for his feet do not reach the floor even should he stretch, toes hooked around one of the support bars. Alphinaud leans his head into one hand, curls falling loose around the side of his face, and those which have grown in longest about his cheekbones hide his flush.

When his fingers slide between leggings and smallclothes, Alphinaud bites his lower lip, pinches it between the barely-visible cut of his front teeth, turning it white with the pressure. But he gives nothing else away as he shifts his legs wider, tilting his hips up in search of pressure against his cunt. The moment he takes his boy’s cock between his thumb and forefinger and squeezes, Alphinaud goes utterly still.

He does it again, tugging as if to jerk it off, so little and with no issue to give, and Alphinaud’s hips jump forward into his hand, his thighs tensing as he lifts himself. 

He hardly needs to ask Alphinaud what he wants, sliding his fingertips down either side of his boy’s cunt, over how swollen his lips are already, slick plastering his pubic hair flat. He squeezes, once, feels his boy shudder, the scrape of the underside of his heels across the bars of the stool, pressing back into his hand. It’s nice, for a time, to simply slide his fingers back and forth, spread Alphinaud’s slick across his tender skin, nails scraping over his labia. He keeps doing it, using the drag of his nails to raise heated lines, until Alphinaud is trembling, his breathing rapid and shallow.

Only then does he turn his hand over, press his hand full over his boy’s hot cock and trap it against the base of his palm, and slide one finger into Alphinaud’s tight cunt, clenching down on the intrusion. He can’t hear the noise Alphinaud makes, not over the sound of the tavern, late and packed enough that most other guests are drunk, but he can _feel_ it, a low vibration in his boy’s chest, a full-body tremor of a whine. He’s looser than when they first started, albeit not by much, and sopping enough that his finger eases straight to the base, even as Alphinaud clenches down and bites his lip until it bleeds, his hand pressed to the top of the table curled into a fist with the tension. 

When he draws his finger back, presses deeper into that narrow, too-tight channel, the heat within him, the softness of Alphinaud’s sweet little cunt that begs for a use harder than it could possibly take, he feels an answering throb, the low burn of arousal in the pit of his stomach, between his thighs.

He curls his finger up, filling Alphinaud as it already is with scant space to spare, presses against the boy’s bladder. Between the size of his hands and the width of Alphinaud’s hips it’s shallow enough to reach like this—the too-slight depth of his cunt, lips half-fused and not possibly able to take his cock, for all Alphinaud begs for it, leaves almost no option but to force him full. He grinds the flat of his hand over his boy’s cock, sensitive but as always wanting firmer use, crushes it against the rise of his pubic bone. He can tell how close Alphinaud is, jerking and straining against him already, so he presses against the entrance to his bladder.

He’s certain it hurts; he’s had rods down his cock that weren’t as wide as his own finger and the pressure sliding that deep is more pain than pleasure, but as always, Alphinaud squeezes tight around him as if to keep his hand there. His noises are now loud enough that Alphinaud curls both his hands over his mouth to keep from being audible, and even still he can hear the pained, broken whimpers in the base of his throat. He curls his finger back, stroking over the entrance to his boy’s bladder, gently at first to warn him it’s coming and then harder, pushing through that tightness to bury his finger knuckle-deep into the slick, wet heat as deep inside Alphinaud as he can go, so full that it can be naught but agony. 

He pulls out, pushes through, thrusts three, four, five times, forces Alphinaud to take it in a simulacrum of what he would take were his cunt open enough for even the possibility of a cock, and he can feel his boy’s slick and piss both dripping down into the curl of his cupped palm, pooling wet between his fingers. 

Alphinaud comes when he twists the width of a second finger into his cunt, feels it strain to accommodate him, and eases them both in as deep as they could possibly go, another impossible intrusion demanded into the entrance to his boy’s bladder, his pleasure secondary to the agony of the stretch. He jolts, straining, and muffles his cry into the press of his own hands, white-knuckled over his mouth, his bright eyes shut and his brow tense, tears visible on his pale eyelashes. He clenches reflexively, cutting off the blood in the fingers trapped inside him, rides the orgasm with an intensity that can but be painful.

Alphinaud’s neck goes slack, head lolling to the side, face pressed into his shoulder, and the broken whines of his boy’s pleasure are a sound he dearly wishes to taste; his cunt so wet that it’s impossible to tell if he’s squirted or if, bladder forced open, he’s just pissed himself as he’s come.

When Alphinaud is loose enough he can pull back, he slides his hand—damp down almost to the wrist—out of his boy’s smallclothes. Alphinaud, still shaking, eyes lidded and cheeks burning red, watches him as he, almost-absently, licks the mess left from the base of his palm and the side of his wrist.

 _Both_ is the answer. Alphinaud had squirted _and_ pissed, and he leans over when Alphinaud grasps him by the front of the shirt, drags him down and into a kiss. Alphinaud parts his lips, panting; moans when he presses his tongue into the boy’s mouth, makes him taste of his own issue.

Alphinaud’s fingers go white-knuckled in his shirt at the taste of his slick, the bitter acid burn of his urine—pushes up off the stool, slides sideways, and Alphinaud’s slight weight settling onto his lap, warm through his open leggings, makes his half-hard cock throb. Alphinaud chases the taste in his mouth, licking behind his teeth, across the flat of his tongue to the ridges of his palate, drags teeth over his chapped lips. 

His fingers have hardly begun to dry.

“Give me your cock,” Alphinaud orders breathless into his mouth, and he stills, heart catching behind his teeth.

“ _Here?_ ”

They are hardly alone. Alphinaud laughs into his lips, slides his leggings down just far enough that there’s room to touch his skin, the tails of his coat hiding the pale curve of his ass from prying eyes. His tunic is already ridden up, and were he to look down, no doubt he could see the hardness of Alphinaud’s little cock, engorged and red between his dripping lips. 

“It is what is expected of me, is it not?” Not by him, but by the rest of Garlemald, here far from any city, where an old soldier accompanied by a pretty-faced boy who never strays far from his side is an easy enough assumption to make, but before now, Alphinaud has been embarrassed even with the knowledge of his use. “Use your slick fingers.” He fucked Alphinaud the night before, as they fell asleep, and then this morning he’d buried four fingers in his ass to the knuckle, no longer nearly so tight as it once was, curled them against his rim, and made Alphinaud ride his hand until he’d come, cunt dripping wet and little cock jerking untouched.

He’s loose enough. 

“Please,” Alphinaud repeats, murmurs it into his lips, spreading his thighs and straddling his hips, leggings straining and his skin hot. 

He does not need to be asked twice, orders sure as steel. He digs his fingertips into the furl of Alphinaud’s hole, presses both in, the drying mess his cunt left still slick enough they go with ease.

He can remember when Alphinaud was tight enough that even getting one finger in was a trial, his hole so unready for use that two was a strain and three made him tear and bleed. Now, he takes two with ready ease, and Alphinaud tilts his hips so that his slick—and he is so wet, having come once already, piss still leaking from the half-open gape of his cunt, loose as it has ever been—drips backward, slides to the base of his fingers.

He fucks them deeper, spreads them, forcing Alphinaud open. Gets his thumb in his boy, pushes that wetness too down to his rim, strokes the swollen tension of the muscle, coaxing it to ease wide. Against him, slender fingers finding their way beneath his shirt to claw over the muscles of his stomach, nails scraping between his ribs and then dragging roughly on the curls of his chest hair, Alphinaud shakes and rocks with his strokes, head tilted back for his kisses, mouth open for his tongue, eyes shut and curls frizzing with humidity from his sweat.

Alphinaud’s noises—high, throaty cries interspersed with broken whimpers, the half-voiced gasps of open-mouthed begging, the ragged adulation when three fingers damp with his slick drag his rim open followed by a soft, whispered _please, it hurts_ as he chases them with a fourth, demanding entrance. He’s so hard its painful, cock trapped in his flies, but he is loathe to pull his fingers free, especially when Alphinaud takes his other hand, pulls it from his hip to his chest, presses his palm over his heart.

Even through the cloth of Alphinaud’s tunic, he can feel the heat of his skin and the swell of his tits. For whatever reason they are growing of late, perhaps spurred by delayed puberty, and the ache has now for more than a fortnight been such that almost more than is safe Alphinaud begs for his hands atop them. They had been sensitive before, aching in their little hardness, but now even the gentlest of touches makes Alphinaud whine and shake, and the firmness of the weight of his hand crushing them, the heel of his palm grinding against the growing fullness of flesh, above all when he takes Alphinaud’s tiny, peaked nipples between two fingers and squeezes as hard as he may, nails digging in, is enough to nearly make him come.

Indeed, there has been more than one night that Alphinaud _has_ come on that alone, and there is little that has gotten him closer to being hard twice in a day than the sight of Alphinaud, naked and spread-wide atop his lap, narrow fingers curling down to press against the base of his cock, his little tits red and welted, nipples pinpricked with blood, cheeks streaked with tears as he comes, cock jumping and cunt dripping, just from having his growing breasts abused.

“Harder,” Alphinaud begs, pushing back into his hand until he digs the flat of a thumb into the hard peak of his boy’s nipple and crushes it. He curls his fingers into his boy’s ass, drags his rim out and out until Alphinaud is shaking and muffling a cry into his mouth, his hole spread as wide as it can possibly go around his four fingers. Wide enough there is certainly blood to ease the way, and though there is oil upon the tabletop for dipping bread, he does not reach for it.

When he pulls his hand back to open his flies, Alphinaud stops him as soon as his cock is free, and spits in his palm. His boy looks up at him through half-lidded blue eyes, and smiles, coy and knowing.

He curses under his breath, and fumbles to slick his length with a mix of his own pre and Alphinaud’s spit and blood. He swipes more from his boy’s dripping cunt and pulls him close, leggings stretched as far as they may about his thighs. Alphinaud spreads his own cheeks, head tilted back, the high arch of the pale column of his throat, and he could be excused from thinking there were any others who could see them when Alphinaud so clearly does not care, secure in the knowledge that anyone who looks sees only what they wish to see—an _aan_ serving his purpose, to be used at _his_ pleasure, whenever asked it. Perhaps, for those who have even noticed in the dim lighting and the smoke and the noise, in the crush of bodies, it is just a show.

Perhaps Alphinaud is getting off on that as much as he is, on the knowledge that everyone could want of his boy and get nothing; that Alphinaud is his and he is Alphinaud’s in return. That Alphinaud wants this of him, when they could so easily retire to their room and he could take his boy apart against the sheets, naked and sweat-slick and clawing at his own skin as he comes apart again and again.

“ _Yes_ ,” Alphinaud hisses, and then again, “Break me open on your cock,” as he pushes himself down, not touching his own hardness, not even reaching for it. He does bury two fingers into his cunt as he does, and then a third, slender as they are—spreading himself wide and plugging it both, knowing well that this angle has more than once made him wet himself from fullness and trying to keep that mess from ruining either of their clothes. 

“You’re growing too loose for that,” he laughs, groaning as he sheathes himself to the base, hips bucking to hilt. Alphinaud ducks his head, once more biting his lip, pushing into the hand upon his breast and the cock within him. He’s hardly _that_ loose, but his hole has seen constant use nightly for near three months, and it can only go so long, having been so often torn, and so many times having slept with him still soft and hilted, before it begins to show.

“So fuck me harder,” Alphinaud replies, and when he slides his free hand beneath Alphinaud’s thigh, lifts him up, drags him back down rough and quick, his boy muffles a cry and claws at his chest, nails scraping over scars and then the side of his nipple.

He looks over Alphinaud’s narrow shoulder, and catches a table watching them: three men, in uniform, staring appreciatively at the line of Alphinaud’s back and the column of his spine, the curve of his ears. He presses his mouth to one, as Alphinaud grinds back and rides his cock, eyes shut. “We’ve been spotted,” he says, as low as he can. Alphinaud opens one eye, and glances over his shoulder. He never stops his motion—indeed, he clenches down harder when he realizes how closely they watch.

“Dinner and a show,” Alphinaud replies, voice just as soft, a whisper lost into the curve of his jaw. “They look appreciative.” When he hilts again, the head of his cock pressing as deep into his boy as it goes, he shudders, bites back a noise. Alphinaud is not meant to be this full, their size difference such that for him to take Alphinaud with the whole of his cock it means forcing his way deep enough that more than once Alphinaud has gagged or vomited on it, his body not meant to open as it does upon his length. 

He holds Alphinaud down, grinds his hips, and laughs at the scent of fresh urine, spilled onto the cup of Alphinaud’s palm. Pushed out of him once again, his body too full. 

He pulls his hand back, and _this_ time, Alphinaud licks his own fingers clean, kisses it into _his_ mouth, the bite of the urea hot on his tongue and against his palate.

“Alphinaud,” he whispers, and his boy catches the word on his lips, in his kiss. He buries himself even deeper, as if such a thing was possible, and pushes Alphinaud’s fingers back inside his little cunt, tormenting a tender passage already worn raw by his earlier fingering, grasps his cock and twists it between the pad of his thumb and forefinger, bending the hard flesh in agony.

“Oh,” Alphinaud’s voice catches, and then his entire body tenses, too-tight, like a vice. “ _Oh_ ,” again, and the sound of his swallow is audible in his throat, the noise begged into his mouth. He can taste the shape of Alphinaud’s pleasure on his tongue, the nearness. He does not know what he expects when Alphinaud shudders, tremors, soaking both their hands where they are pressed into the swollen flesh of his cunt and cock both with the slick of his orgasm and the inevitable, _unavoidable_ , drip of his piss, bladder worn loose from too-many nights fingering the entrance in lieu of being able to easily curl his fingers deeper to thrust against his boy’s cervix, where he _truly_ wants the pressure—but it is not for his boy, his beautiful, sweet, brilliant boy, taking his cock and more to spare, clenching down like a vice, to moan “ _Pabbi_ ,” into his mouth when he comes.

He curses again, fingers tightening around the still-hard length of Alphinaud’s cock, crushing it, draws a higher, breathier whine from the depths of his boy’s throat, another shudder of orgasm grown too-long, so sensitive it is perhaps finally nearing _over_ -painful for his boy, and he hilts himself, face pressed into Alphinaud’s sweat-damp hair as he comes. He throbs when he remembers how deep inside Alphinaud he is, that his spend will not drip free of his clenching, spasming hole with ease, for he can feel the tightness of his boy’s colon around the head of his cock. 

“Take it,” he growls, and Alphinaud laughs into his mouth, as if he could do anything _but_ , and then his laugh turns into something else, a broken, agonized shuddering _sob_ as he drags Alphinaud down deeper, his thighs pushed upward, his hips grinding. “You’ll smell like me,” he tells his boy, dragging stubbleburn over his soft cheeks, and Alphinaud is begging into his mouth, nails digging bloody crescents over his nipple beneath his shirt, and as he gets soft, he pisses into Alphinaud, gives as good as he got, and—gods, if the men watching hungry could know—if anyone but they could know that Alphinaud comes again, sobbing and still-needy, when he fills like this, the hand against to the base of his stomach flattening as he takes more urine than he could himself produce—

“I’ll wet myself,” Alphinaud whines into his mouth, heel of his palm pressed to the distension of his belly. “Pabbi, I’ll wet myself, I can’t hold that much—” There’s not the slightest hint of true fear in his voice, just warmth and heat and _want_ , to know that even without spend dripping down the insides of his thighs when he pulls off, he’ll clench as hard as he can, to hold the mess they’ve made in as long as it takes to get to their room, to the chamberpot or the privy—

He’s lightheaded with arousal, knowing that Alphinaud will leave the table furtively, thighs and loose hole clenched to keep from soaking his smallclothes through, and none will know how full his ass is, how wet his cunt.

“You’d better hurry,” he tells Alphinaud, and pulls out, the rim of Alphinaud’s loose hole stretching around him even when soft, before Alphinaud clenches up, holding tight. He fumbles his leggings back up, glances toward their watchers—

Alphinaud slides his fingers, still wet from his cunt, into his mouth, and sucks them clean.

His laugh, raw and shocked and pleased, chases Alphinaud all the way upstairs, and he follows anon, already wondering in just what state he’ll find his boy when he gets there—and hoping, albeit silently, that he didn’t make it, and they’ll need to do laundry before they depart on the morrow.

**Author's Note:**

> 16:12 High Epic Phaedrus hey i need you to weigh in  
> 16:12 High Epic Phaedrus on a vote  
> 16:12 High Epic Phaedrus which activates your cain instinct to make you want to thump me more  
> 16:12 High Epic Phaedrus leaky faucet or aquæductus  
> 16:14 McCoy ...  
> 16:14 McCoy sighs  
> 16:14 McCoy this is in the context of porn isnt it.  
> 16:14 High Epic Phaedrus Answer The Question Please.  
> 16:14 McCoy aquaduct bc you actually went to the trouble of spelling it both correctly and with the mashed ae sound


End file.
